Porcelain Smile
by Undercooked
Summary: A look into the life of one of the string of women that undoubtably come knocking at Montparnasse' door. "One day, love, you shall kill me." "Shall I stop, then?" "Never stop." T for...interesting intercourse. Not explicit.


Disclaimer: I was not born when Les Miserables was written. Does that...tell you anything? Yes? No?

A/N: This is a brief look into the life of one of the string of women that undoubtably knock at Montparnasses' door. Further: Christelle is not an OC. She's just...there. For this one story. I swear. Also, yes, I know, me and my semester of French are not the very best. Oh, well. I got my point across.

Extra, extra -- if you want my full look on the story while I was writing it, listen to "Polly" by Nirvana. It's a little too modern-day for the story, but it helped me a lot.

**Porcelain Smile**

**by: Undercooked**

Elegance had worked its lacy fingers into his disgraceful abode. Blonde ringlets shivered on the pillows, and teeth of porcelain tempted blithely. He had always known those dainty teeth were false. Buffed, sharp fingernails tapped against the stained wall, blood, his blood, underneath them. Her eyes were very bright when in sordid company. She liked it when he blackened those same precious pieces of jewelry, and they were both black now.

"What is to be said for a woman who likes to be beaten?" Babet inquired once.

"What is to be said for her is that she makes a very pretty fuck." he had replied.

She was very rich, very young; her silken dresses were always torn, her bodices constantly rent. Her very rich maman and papa thought she was an extraordinarily clumsy girl.

Her long sheets of blonde tresses hid the ovals of bite marks.

Sometimes, he bound her wrists and strangled her. When her eyes coasted back in her head, he knew to stop.

"One day, love, you shall kill me." she professed in a gasp one night.

"Shall I stop, then?"

"Never stop."

Sometimes, they just lay together, him stroking her hair, her eyelashes fluttering.

She liked this just as well.

"One day, Christelle, I'll fall in love with you." he half-promised. She'd only laugh, her porcelain teeth luminescent,

Neither properly loved the other.

Madame Maman and Monsieur Papa agreed to marry Christelle off to Monsieur le Rich Businessman. Said monsieur was found dead the very next day.

"Mon cher, what did you do to Monsieur DeLacey?" Christelle asked dreamily.

"Nothing he didn't deserve for touching what is mine." was the reply.

"He never touched me."

"He would have. His filthy hands all over."

"Shall you marry me, then?"

"Stupid thing." and her struck her immaculate cheek. She pouted, but there was a smile in her pout.

Mademoiselle Christelle soon made the acquaintance of Mademoiselle Eponine.

"You're very lovely, Mamselle Christelle." she murmured.

"No, no." Christelle dismissed impatiently. "You're far lovelier."

"But your teeth are so nice...and your hair..."

"Yes. Well. There is blood under MY fingernails, and I see none under yours."

The two kissed each other's cheeks and instantly understood one another.

When he kissed her, sometimes she shook, full of worms and vomit-like pools of love so twisted that i was unrecognizable.

When he held her, sometimes she breathed irregularly, caught between dependent and independent, gentle lady and ferocious slut.

Once, he fell ill, and Christelle played the nurse. She broke his pinkie finger just to see what he would do; just to be in power for once. He arched his back and groaned,

"Ah, Christelle, what've you done?"

She felt miserably guilty -- she binded up his finger and kissed each of his eyelids.

The day came when Montparnasse, bored just then, proposed a game, a blood game, a sex game.

Christelle could not refuse.

As the silken waves of blood folded over the white flute of her wrist, and her eyes paled, her life falling away like a dead leaf, he tapped his cheek with his finger, musing,

"Damn. She was quite lovely, her."

Christelle's body found its way into the Seine, her lavender skirt drifting glacially, her face perfect and icy, her blue eyes dark crystal, porcelain teeth appearing as is of stone, rigor mortise hugging her morbidly.

Soon after Christelle came Antoinette. She was a brunette, and all of her teeth were real.


End file.
